Does the Hunt Ever End?

Sitting cross-legged in the cool damp grass of a pasture ridge, my fingers sank deep into the still-warm mottled brown feathers of the wild turkey I had just arrowed.

Incredible. Only minutes ago, this living, sentient animal had been drawing breath, possibly the same air I was breathing. The same sun that bathed me in golden light illuminated his world too. A wash of relief, joy, sadness, gratefulness, and pride churned in my soul. The hunt was over.

Or was it?

In the days following the hunt, a question surfaced amidst my reflection: Does the hunt ever end?

I can save you some reading and simply tell you that most times, I think the answer is “No.” Read on if you’d like more than just the Cliff notes.

The hunts that live on are the ones we don’t forget – the ones we continue to think about, mull over, replay, relive. They affect who we are. They cause us to make changes not only in the field, but also in life.

In October of 2011, the biggest buck of my life (at the time) walked by my stand at 20 yards. Without stopping him, I zipped an arrow through both of his lungs. He ran a looping 40 yards and crashed before exiting the green patch. Pulling my phone out to call Beth about what just happened, I saw I had multiple missed calls and texts from her. She was at a routine prenatal checkup and the doctors were concerned she was dipping into labor two months early.

My mountain top instantly became a deep crevasse. The notion of my unborn baby daughter fighting for life was the only thing that mattered. Everything ended up being fine, but that scare, and the clarity it provided, makes me prioritize family over hunting to this very day.  

Another hunt, closer to Halloween in 2014 on a gloomy evening found a single doe meandering down the trail toward my stand. As she passed silently beneath me, I came to full draw and steadied a pin just to the right of her spine.

The arrow struck true, dropping her immediately and penetrating 12 inches into her chest cavity. With her back end out of commission, she attempted to crawl away with only her front legs. Her bawling pierced the impending evening dark with an eeriness I don’t care to experience again. While the shot I executed was lethal, I tend to wait for better shots after that encounter. That hunt is still impacting me.

At this point, you may be wondering why I qualified my earlier statement that “most” hunts never end. So, what hunts do end?

I think these are the exception to the rule. The minority. But I believe the hunts that end are the ones we no longer think about. Now, people more qualified than me will probably dig into the subconscious mind and make the point that even subconscious memories and thoughts can still impact a person, and by extension, no hunts ever truly end. They’re probably right, and I’d probably agree, but that’s deeper water than I’m qualified to navigate.

From my simple perspective, I can only speak to what I know and have experienced. These times afield, the people, the animals, the weapons, the land, the weather, the skill, the time – all of it coalesces into eternal significance.

It’s not just that my priorities are better aligned or that I wait for better shots; these hunts change us at our core. They leave marks on our soul. Whether it be a deeper reverence for life or the recognition that everything in nature is ordered by the Master, the hunter finds himself not at the center of the Universe, but an aware, awestruck, appreciative and active participant in the grand milieu.

As I sit here at my desk, my mind drifts back and sees my arrow disappear below that gobbler’s wing. I hear the crack of feathers cleaving. My fingers slide slowly and deeply through an iridescent coat so dark and luxurious it betrays the royalty of its Creator. The same morning sun bathes us both in its glorious light.

In my mind, for the rest of my days, that turkey will live and die a million times, and that hunt – like so many others – will never end.